


Queen's Most Ineffable Hits

by cyankelpie



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Dancing, Domestic Fluff, Dorks in Love, Generally being adorable and listening to music together, M/M, Post-Almost Apocalypse (Good Omens), Queen - Freeform, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, bebop, carpool karaoke
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-07
Updated: 2019-12-07
Packaged: 2021-02-25 20:35:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21701545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cyankelpie/pseuds/cyankelpie
Summary: To Crowley's delight, his "bebop" is starting to grow on Aziraphale. He decides to introduce his angel to as much of Queen's music as he can. It provides an excellent soundtrack for their newfound relationship.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 20
Kudos: 133
Collections: Aspec-friendly Good Omens





	Queen's Most Ineffable Hits

**Author's Note:**

> Someone left this fic in the car for too long and it turned into a Queen's Greatest Hits album.
> 
> I wrote this sugary fluff as a sort of antidote to all the angst in [Broken Records](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20082697) (another Queen-heavy fic). Also, if you haven't yet had the pleasure of experiencing [Seaside Rendezvous](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=36nqGs_Dvws), I highly recommend giving it a listen before reading this. There are kazoos. It's really quite spectacular.

The first time Aziraphale expressed a positive thought about Crowley’s “bebop” (a misclassification that had been repeated so many times that he suspected it was entirely intentional at this point), they were driving to dinner in the Bentley a few weeks after what they had taken to calling “that day at the airbase.” “I do rather like this song,” he muttered during a rare lull in the conversation, just as Freddie belted out, _can anybody find me somebody to love?_

Crowley’s eyebrows rose. So the angel did have some taste. “Everybody likes this one, angel.”

“Didn’t you say it was one of your favorites?”

“Yeah,” Crowley said, rolling his eyes. “I said ‘everyone,’ didn’t I?”

He made it a mission after that to introduce his angel to as much of Queen’s music as he could. It didn’t take long for Aziraphale to pick up a common thread in his selections. “You really like this band, don’t you?” he asked once, as they drank in the back of the bookshop. Aziraphale had started letting Crowley put on music while they chatted, which he appreciated, since he didn’t much care for silence. Though, since Aziraphale had no speakers of his own and no inclination to install any, they had to use one of those cheap, near-useless Bluetooth speakers Crowley wished he had taken credit for when he was still employed.

“Everyone like Queen,” Crowley slurred, sipping his wine. “They were gen…geniusus…they were real good.”

Aziraphale nodded. He seemed to know, or at least suspect, that Crowley’s attachment to the music was more than he let on. “The singer’s very good,” he said. “What’d’you say his name was? Mars?”

“Mercury.”

_She’s a killer queeeeeen, gunfire and gelatin, dynamite with a laser beam._

“Lemme show you something,” said Crowley, fishing his phone out from where it had fallen between the seat cushions. He opened up his music streaming app, scrolled through his Queen songs for a moment, and then picked out “Seaside Rendezvous.” “See what you think of this one.”

Aziraphale’s eyebrows jumped a little at the cheerful piano introduction. _Seaside, whenever you stroll along with me…_ “Well, that’s quite different.”

“That’s Queen,” said Crowley, grinning and waving his glass. “Always different.”

_…Meanwhile, I ask you to be my clementine, you say you would if you could, but you can’t…_

“It’s a bit jaunty, isn’t it?” said Aziraphale, with a little smile. “I think I rather like this one.”

“Yeah?” Crowley fought to keep a straight face. “Wait’ll the next bit.”

Aziraphale smiled to himself as he sipped his wine, bobbing a little in time with the music. _…And at the peak of the season, the Mediterranean, this time of year, it’s so fashionable._ And then the kazoo solo kicked in.

Aziraphale choked on his wine. “What the devil—”

Crowley laughed so hard he nearly fell out of his chair, and didn’t stop until the song was over. Aziraphale glared at him the entire time. It was worth it.

“Did you ever meet them?” Aziraphale asked one day.

“Who?”

Aziraphale gestured at Crowley’s speaker, nestled between the potted plants. “The Queen.”

Crowley sighed with exaggerated impatience. “It’s just ‘Queen,’ Aziraphale. No ‘the.’ I keep telling you.”

“So did you meet them? Mercury, and the others?”

“Yeah.” Crowley leaned back as much as the straight-backed gilded chair would allow. The chairs really were quite impractical. That was part of the reason he’d bought them, for the sheer ridiculousness, but now that someone else actually had to sit in them the joke had worn off. Perhaps he should redecorate.

“What were they like?”

“Oh, loads of fun. The parties—” He grinned. “Oh, the parties. And Freddie, you’d have liked him. Everyone did. He _was_ the party.”

“Freddie?” said Aziraphale. “You were on first-name terms, then?”

“Yeah,” said Crowley after a moment’s pause. “We got along well. He understood some things, you know?”

Through the plants, the voice of his old friend sang, _save me, save me, saaaaaave me. I can’t face this life alone._

“He certainly sings like it,” said Aziraphale, sipping his tea.

Crowley debated for a long while about when was the right time to introduce Aziraphale to “Bohemian Rhapsody.” If he did it too soon, before the angel had built up an appreciation for rock, it would go completely over his head, and he couldn’t have that. The day finally came when Aziraphale managed to not only sit through “We Will Rock You” without flinching, but actually bobbed along and seemed to enjoy it. At last, he was getting it. He was ready.

Or so he had thought, anyway. When he put on “Bohemian Rhapsody” in his flat (he didn’t trust the tinny Bluetooth speaker to do it justice) and insisted Aziraphale shut up and listen to this, he ended up watching the crease between Aziraphale’s eyebrows grow increasingly pronounced during the third most suspenseful six-minute period of his life. (The first was during Armageddon, waiting for the arrival of the Lord of Hell and then watching the antichrist stare him down. The second had been waiting for those damn bombs to drop so his feet would stop burning. Technically, that had only been about one minute, but the pain made it feel six times longer.)

“Well,” said Aziraphale after the final gong faded out. He seemed to be choosing his words carefully, so as not to offend Crowley. “That certainly was…creative.”

Crowley pressed his lips together and nodded. He shouldn’t have expected the angel to get it, really. He was new to modern music, even modern music that was over forty years old.

“I’m not really sure I understand,” said Aziraphale. “Did I hear them mention Galileo? As in, the astronomer?”

“You’re not supposed to think about it,” said Crowley. “It’s about how it makes you _feel_.”

“Well, I feel confused.”

“Never mind, then. Something else.” He flicked through the music on his phone. Classical was more Aziraphale’s speed. After glancing over the tracks as his disposal, he hid a private grin, started playing Holst’s “The Planets” suite, and folded his hands behind his head.

About a minute in, Aziraphale snorted. “Oh, a different kind of Mercury. Very clever.”

Crowley grinned. He knew the angel would catch his little joke.

After a few weeks of needling, Aziraphale finally agreed to let Crowley get him a decent set of speakers, under the pretense that the customers might like some background music. That really didn’t explain why Crowley put some in the back room as well, but Aziraphale didn’t comment on it. It meant that, when “You’re My Best Friend” came on during one of their usual nights drinking and chatting, the introduction was finally recognizable. Aziraphale’s face, flushed with wine, lit up. “This one!” He said pointing excitedly. “Love this one.”

Crowley beamed with pride. His angel had recognized it so fast, even before the lyrics started. “Right?”

“Makes me think of you,” said Aziraphale, turning that glowing smile on him.

Something had sucked the air from Crowley’s lungs. “What? Oh…”

“Does,” the angel insisted. “Every time.”

_…It’s you, you’re all I see, ooh, you make me live now honey…_

Crowley had to duck and wipe his eyes. There was no point in saying what this song reminded him of. A panicked drive through Soho, a pillar of black smoke, a thud like a bass drum in his stomach, this very bookshop crumbling in flames around him.

“Crowley, dear?” Aziraphale’s smile vanished. “What’s wrong? Did I say something?”

He shook his head. A sob clawed its way up his throat. “S’fine,” he gasped, even though it obviously wasn’t. “S’not you.”

Aziraphale reached tentatively towards Crowley. “I didn’t mean to—”

“S’alright, Aziraphale.” Crowley caught his hand and squeezed it, forcing a smile. “Everything’s alright, now.”

Aziraphale didn’t quite understand, but he seemed glad just to sit there holding Crowley’s hand for a moment. “Perhaps you’d better change the song.”

Crowley drew a long, shaky breath and pulled out his phone. A moment later, the second chorus of “You’re my Best Friend” was cut off by the jaunty opening notes of “Seaside Rendezvous.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake.” Aziraphale pulled his hand back and shot a glare at Crowley. “Not this nonsense again.”

“The kazoo is a criminally underused instrument, I find,” said Crowley, with a nefarious grin.

“It’s criminally _something._ ”

When Crowley caught Aziraphale humming along to snatches of “Bohemian Rhapsody” in the car a few days later, he stared so hard he nearly smashed straight into the highway barrier. He couldn’t have played it for the angel more than twice. There was no way he’d learned it that quickly. “You’ve been listening to this,” he said, amazed, after slamming on the brakes to save them both from discorporation.

Aziraphale’s eyes bulged. “Dear, I wish you’d watch the road—”

“When?”

His glance was evasive. “Well, I…I managed to find it on the internet.”

“You didn’t!” Crowley’s smile could not be controlled. “I thought you hated that song.”

“Hated? Goodness, no,” said Aziraphale, fiddling with his hands. “It just confused me. Still does, to be honest, but it’s…intriguing. I mean,” he looked up at Crowley. “‘Beelzebub has a devil put aside for me.’ What a line.”

“Always knew you had good taste, deep down,” said Crowley, grinning uncontrollably. “So, how many times? How well d’you know it?”

“Ah—Well—” Aziraphale laughed nervously. “I did leave it on repeat for a while. I spent a good deal of time trying to understand how Galileo figured into it.”

Crowley’s grin, if possible, grew even wider. “Start it over,” he said, taking his foot off the brake and cranking up the volume. “We’re doing this. Ready? _Is this the real life? Is this just fantasy?”_

“You can’t be serious.”

“It’s the M25. Nobody can hear us over the honking and the occult static. C’mon, sing with me.”

As it turns out, Freddie Mercury did not have the voice of an angel. He had a much better one. But Crowley didn’t mind.

“No, no,” said Crowley, laying across the back of Aziraphale’s couch like he was a coat that somebody had thrown across it. “They’re not all _exactly_ the same. There’s different beats.”

“At exactly the same speed,” Aziraphale insisted. “With exactly the same base drop in all of them, at the same time. There’s never even a decent melody.”

“If there was, you wouldn’t be able to hear it over the noise,” said Crowley. “It’s club music, Aziraphale. It’s not for listening, it’s for dancing.”

“It’s a disgrace to music,” said Aziraphale. “Dancing, too. What happened to creativity?”

“Oh, we got threw that out when disco came around,” said Crowley, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “There’s other music, Aziraphale. The most commercial stuff isn’t always going to be the most creative.”

“Queen was commercial,” Aziraphale pointed out, nodding at the speakers, which were now half-buried in a stunning array of houseplants. Their leaves shook a bit from the vibrations of “Another One Bites the Dust.”

“And you don’t like all of their stuff, either,” said Crowley. “Look, nobody here’s forcing you to listen to EDM. This is a safe place.”

“Until you start playing ‘Seaside Rendezvous’ again,” Aziraphale muttered.

“Not my fault it’s still funny every time.”

“Another one Bites the Dust” ended in a flash of drums, and “Crazy Little Thing Called Love” took its place. Crowley tapped his fingers in time to the swing rhythm. He realized a moment later that Aziraphale was doing the same.

The angel caught him looking. “What?”

For a moment, Crowley just smiled at him without speaking.

“ _What?_ ”

“Angel.” He drew himself up off the couch and offered a hand to Aziraphale. “May I have this dance?”

Aziraphale laughed nervously. “You know angels don’t dance.”

“You do.”

“Well, one very specific dance, but this is hardly—”

“It’s not hard. I’ll teach you.” Crowley flicked his head toward the open space in front of the couch. The coffee table that usually sat there had conveniently pushed itself against the wall to make room.

With a sigh, Aziraphale took his hand. “Oh, all right, dear. If you want.”

_This thing, called love, oh I just, can’t handle it…_

“So, like this.” Crowley set Aziraphale’s hand on his shoulder and placed his on the angel’s back, keeping their other hands together. “Then you go, step, step, step-step. Like that.”

“Like this?”

“No, no, do what I do. I mean—Not that foot, the other—what I do, but mirrored. My left, your right.”

“Oh! Yes, I see.”

_I ain’t ready, crazy little thing called love._

Aziraphale stared down at his feet, struggling to get the hang of the steps. “They don’t line up.”

“Hm?”

“I mean, there’s three counts of steps, but this song is in four.”

Crowley grinned. He wished he could take credit for that one. “Yeah, it’s _ineffable_ , isn’t it?”

“That’s not what that means.”

“You don’t know that doing a six-count dance to a four-count song _isn’t_ part of God’s plan.”

“If I had known she planned that, we might have been on the same side much earlier,” said Aziraphale, irritated. “This is a deal harder than you led me to believe.”

“It’s four steps. I thought even you could handle that.”

_…It swings (oh oh), it jives (oh oh), it shakes all over like a jellyfish…_

“I didn’t even know you knew how to swing dance,” said Aziraphale.

“Please. I invented it,” said Crowley. “To corrupt the youth of America.”

“Did you really?” Aziraphale glanced up from his feet just long enough to accidentally step on Crowley’s. “Oh, oops—”

“Nah,” said Crowley. “That’s what I told hell, though.”

“You old serpent.”

“Think you forgot a ‘wily’ somewhere in there.”

_There goes my baby, she knows how to rock and roll, she drives me crazy…_

“Am I getting it?” Aziraphale asked. He had stopped stumbling over every other step, and could stay in time with Crowley without having to move half a beat behind him. “It feels like I’m getting it.”

“Yeah, you’ve got it now,” said Crowley. “Fancy a spin?”

“A what?”

“A spin.”

“Is that a dance term?”

“Yeah, it’s, you know, a _spin_.”

“Oh, literally just—”

“Yes.” Crowley raised his left arm and nudged Aziraphale underneath it.

Aziraphale twirled under and came out smiling. “Oh—I get it.”

“It’s a spin. There’s not much to get.”

They were only holding one pair of hands now. Aziraphale looked down at them. “What happens now?”

“Er…” Crowley had already exhausted his limited knowledge of swing dancing. He couldn’t remember how they were supposed to come back together. “Start over?”

_…I gotta be cool, relax, get hip, and get on my tracks…_

“It is rather fun,” said Aziraphale. “Springy. Sort of like the gavotte.”

“Very sort of,” said Crowley. “You don’t have to look at your feet the whole time, you know.”

“What? Oh.” Aziraphale looked up at Crowley’s face, and his eyes softened. Crowley felt his own smile matching Aziraphale’s. “Well, that is better.” A few seconds later, he stepped on Crowley’s toes again. “Oops—maybe not. Sorry.”

Crowley winced while Aziraphale was looking down at his feet. “S’alright. I knew what I signed up for when I asked.”

_Crazy little thing called love, crazy little thing called love, crazy little thing called love…_

The song faded out. Crowley made a mental note not to try dancing again, unless he could find whatever kind of music was suitable for a gavotte. He actually had no idea what a gavotte was. Perhaps he should ask Aziraphale to teach him.

A much slower song started playing in its place. _Open up your mind and let me step inside, rest your weary head and let your heart decide._

Crowley realized he was still holding Aziraphale, who had stopped looking at his feet. He was so soft and warm. It made Crowley feel warmer and softer just to be close to him like this. “I think I know this one,” said Aziraphale.

“Yeah, it’s ‘The Game,’” said Crowley. “You’ve heard it before.”

“Not the song, Crowley.” Aziraphale started to sway gently in time with the music. “The dance.”

“Oh.” His insides melted a bit as Aziraphale pulled him closer. They swayed back and forth together, perfectly together. After a moment’s hesitation, Crowley leaned his forehead against the angel’s.

_This is your life, don’t play hard to get, it’s a free world, all you have to do is fall in love._

“This hardly qualifies as dancing, you know,” Crowley muttered.

“Oh, shut up.” 

“I like this song,” said Aziraphale hesitantly as they drove to brunch one day. It’s…nice.”

Crowley glanced at him for just a second. Aziraphale had heard “Love of my Life” plenty of times, but had never commented on it before. Crowley drew a deep breath, wondering if he ought to say what the song brought to his mind. “…Nah.”

“No?”

Crowley looked ahead at the road for a moment. “This recording,” he said. “Don’t like it much. There’s a live one that’s better. Whole crowd singing along. No stupid harps.”

Aziraphale was quiet for a moment. “How come you haven’t played it for me?”

“It’s—well, it’s—” Crowley couldn’t come up with a convincing answer. “Dunno.”

“Well, which version is it?” Aziraphale unlocked Crowley’s phone. “I’ll look it up right now. No need to keep listening to an inferior recording.”

“No, no—” Crowley waved at him. “Not now. Maybe later.”

Aziraphale gave him a concerned look. “Is something the matter?”

“I’m…I’m driving, that’s all.”

“Driving?” said Aziraphale. “Why should—”

“So I need to be able to see,” he said. “You’re always telling me to watch the road.”

“Well, yes…I’m not following.”

Crowley swallowed. Of course Aziraphale would make him spell it out for him. “So I can’t—see—when my eyes are all…” He gestured at his face. “You know, wet. So…”

“Oh.” Azirphale locked the phone and patted Crowley’s arm gently. “Of course, dear. Later, then.”

_Love of my life, can’t you see? Bring it back, bring it back, don’t take it away from me, because you don’t know what it means to me._

“I do like this song though,” Aziraphale murmured.

“Too sad for me, personally,” said Crowley, shaking his head. “I like the big flashy ones. Drums and guitars, you know. Loud stuff. That’s me.”

“Crowley?”

He turned to Aziraphale. “Mm?”

The angel was still hesitating. “You know what I said about ‘You’re my Best Friend,’ that one time in the bookshop?” He stole a glance at Crowley. “Well, this song…”

Crowley’s throat tightened. It was suddenly very hard to swallow. “I’m _driving_ , Aziraphale,” he choked.

“Right—right. I’ll wait until we park.” Aziraphale looked down at the phone. “Shall I change it?”

“Before I crash, please.”

Aziraphale scrolled through Crowley’s music for a few seconds and tapped a song with a little flourish. A jaunty piano riff began to play. _Seaside, whenever you stroll along with me…_

Crowley chuckled, shaking his head in disbelief. He turned to glance fondly at Aziraphale. “Oh, you…”

“It’s grown on me,” said Aziraphale, with a devious smile of his own. “So few songs take advantage of the kazoo, you know.”


End file.
